


Complications of Family

by Bea_Trix_Yagri



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Contract killing, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff, Functional Dysfunctional Family, Humor, M/M, Russian Mafia, Scorpia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14885276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bea_Trix_Yagri/pseuds/Bea_Trix_Yagri
Summary: Yuri only true constant in his life has been his Grandfather. His parents have made serious attempts to be there but, unfortunately have fallen short. This is a exploration of Yuri's family and his life leading up to his training with Yakov.OrYassen isn't as alone as the rest of Scorpia thinks he is.





	1. Karina

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Fic that's been haunting me for a awhile, I'm writing it purely for myself but, I hope other can enjoy it. I own neither Yuri on Ice nor Alex Rider. I love them to bits though. Feel free to ask any questions and I'll try to explain as soon as possible.

Karina Plisetsky was young when her world crumbled. Only twenty one and a rising star in Russia's music industry, it was a young career but promising. Her fanbase was small - but dedicated – and while she hadn't hit the top twenty, her singles where a frequent visitor to the top forty charts. She was one of those artist that started small and worked for the big leagues, and once she got there no one would knock her down. 

Her fall from grace came in the form of a handsome stranger. Blond, with the lithe build of a dancer. He had this presence that seemed to incur fear and fascination in those that met him. Well, mostly fear, the fascination was all Karina's. They were occupants of the same hotel. 

He brought the first round of drinks and she was happy to indulge in his company that night. Karina would remember her thin fingers tracing a long scar that marred his neck. Other details would blur, pale blue eyes would become dark, chiseled lips would be made full, but the scar. The scar would always be remembered with astonishing clarity. 

The next morning Karina awoke in a empty hotel room, with only the bruises and pain from a passionate night. Or so she thought. 

It started with nausea, striking when most inconvenient, often during rehearsals. It was only a near moth later when she found herself crouched in front of a toilet did she really consider what the signs meant. A trip to the chemist in disguise allowed for a decent pregnancy test to confirm her suspicions. She managed to convincingly hide it until she showing. Then her manager dropped her like a hot potato. 

After two months searching for a new agent and manager, her funds where dwindling. Karina was forced back to the outskirts of Moscow, and to her family's home. 

"Do you want this?" Where the first words her father had asked her. 

"It might be my only child." Karina replied. Complications were common on both sides of the family, Karina herself have been delivered via caesarean. Children were precious gifts, and she had made her choice. "The industry won't disappear overnight, I made it before I'll make it again." 

Her papa had then offered all his support. 

Yuri Plisetsky was born early in the morning on March 1st, he was tiny with a shock of the blondest hair. Little fists hanging tightly to his Grandpa's large pinkie. The new-born was promptly declared adorable, two nights later that was revoked and he was renamed a terror. 

"He must have your lungs," her father had said. The little horror disguised as her son only howled louder, his cries only ever seemed to quiet in the presence of his Grandpa. That didn't bother Karina – much – her time was spent working shifts at nearby stores, as Nikolai's own salary wasn't enough to cover both her and little Yuri. 

That wasn't to say she didn't have contact with her son. He was always calmest in the time just after he'd awoken from his nap. Karina and little Yuri would lie on the softest rug in the little house, together, playing with his toys, all the while he babbled happily. Karina was always happy to babble back. 

"You are so cute," she'd whisper, or "who's a little heart stealer?" 

Other times she liked to tell him stories about his mysterious father. Grand adventures, and out of proportion descriptions of his beauty. Karina didn't begrudge the man, much. 

"He had the bluest eyes. Don't worry yours are gorgeous green, like mine, and we both know green is much better, don't we?" 

"Baba." 

"Yes we do. Anyway, he was tall and very handsome – just like you – and when he walked into the room, it was like magic. He was so strong and he had this big scar across his neck. I bet he was undercover and on a mission, that’s why he had the scar, he'd done missions before." 

"Grapa." 

"Hmm, what did you say?" 

"Grapa." 

"Ah! Papa!" She shouted, summoning her father to the living room. 

"What's wrong?" Nikolai asked. Faced with his daughter proudly holding his tiny grandson in front of him. 

"Guess what our little genius said," she replied. "Way you go sweetie, say it, say Grandpa. Grandpa." 

"Grapa, baba. Baba grapa." 

"See?" Karina asked, proudly adjusting Yuri against her hip. Nikolai just smiled. 

"Grapa isn't a word." 

"Yes it is." 

The rest of the night settled down into a soft spoken argument, which was his first word, what did and didn't count. It was agreed, in the end, that he'd made his first word like noise. The moment was captured and framed. 

The house found itself a comfortable routine, interrupted only the important landmarks of a growing boy. First steps, first words, birthdays, each a treasured event in the Plisetsky household. 

When Yuri was four, her father - in the winter months - had started taking Yuri to a little pond that froze solid throughout the cold season. Her boy had taken to it like a duck to water, skating neat circles around all the other children. Each night he'd proudly show off all his bruises from every fall. Only the worst of storms would keep her little Yuri of the ice. 

Then she met Ivan. 

Karina had just finished her shift, her hands full with the weeks groceries. A particularly slippery patch of ice sent her bowling over and her shopping sprawling. 

"Damn it." Karina hissed, as she set about collecting it. 

"Need a hand there?" Asked a broad shouldered man. He could be considered the exact opposite of Yuri's father. 

Where her scarred stranger had been lithe and blond, wrapped up in thin muscle that was wound so tight, he might have been a snake poised to strike. The man before her was at least 6ft and built with large soft muscle. Where Yuri's father created a cold fascination, the polite gentleman before her exuded a friendly aura. 

Two – sweet, considerate, wonderful - dates later, she was smitten. 

Karina offered to introduce him to her boys. Her father greeted him at the door, sizing him up like he did every with every man she brought home. A firm hand shake and good conversation over dinner won him over, soon were telling tales like old wives together. Their booming laughter had woken a cranky four year old. 

"Mama, why do we have a bear?" Yuri asked, with the most unimpressed face he could give. He'd been doing that a lot, she hoped it was just a phase. 

"Silly, that isn't a bear. That's Ivan, he's Mama's boy-friend. Do you want to meet him?" Karina asked, lifting Yuri with only a little trouble – the boy was still quite small – and holding him so that he could see. His lovely green eyes looked the stranger in his kitchen up and down. 

"No." 

"Yuri that isn't polite", Karina scolded him. 

"It's fine Karina," Ivan replied. Holding his arms out for the little boy, Karina carefully passed him over. "Hello Yuri, my name is Ivan. Your Grandpa tells me you like skating, I do as well." 

"What do you skate?" 

"I play hockey for fun, maybe we could spend some time together at the rink? You usually just go to the pond don't you?" 

"Grandpa always takes me skating." 

"Well he's just as welcome, I'd love to take you both to the rink. If your willing Nikolai?" 

"Oh, always," replied her father. 

The evening ended with an even more worn out four year old, a chaste kiss for Karina, and promises of a visit to a proper ice rink as soon as Ivan was able. 

The visit was arranged less than a month later, the whole family piled themselves and snacks to Nikolai ancient car, ready to meet Ivan at the rink. The team was just starting, already skating round the rink to warm up. They spotted Ivan on the side line waiting for them. 

He deposited a quick kiss on Karina's cheek before addressing an amused Nikolai and unamused Yuri. The little boy look more like a snowball of clothing rather than a four year old, so his scowl only made him more adorable. Karina was getting just a tiny bit concerned about his attitude. 

"Heya little man, why the long face?" Ivan asked. 

"You said we where going to skate?" 

"We are, the team is just doing a few drills, we'll be out there real soon." This did not appease Yuri. Ivan did not give up, from behind his back he produced a little hockey stick, just the right size for little Yuri. "Check out what I got you." 

Yuri took the stick, obviously conflicted his face scrunched as he looked the whole thing over. 

"Yuri, what do we say?" Karina prodded. 

"Thank you." 

"No problem champ. I'll be right with you after practice." 

After practice turned out to be just over an hour later. During said hour, Yuri had eaten two pirozhki, explored the entire rink, tied and untied his skates, and started a very important argument on why they should have a tiger. 

"Because!" 

Ivan appeared again, still on his skates but having shed most of his protective gear and now holding a pair of rented skates. 

"You ready champ?" 

"Yes! You took forever!" 

"I'm sorry about that, but when we get out on the ice I'll make it up to you." 

"Why do you have those?" Yuri asked pointing at the spare pair of skates. "Grandpa can't skate anymore, he hurt his back." 

"Don't worry kiddo, these are for your Mama." Ivan turned to her, "you're joining us aren't you?" 

"I will, but I not very good," Karina replied. 

"That's fine." 

Yuri was off like a rocket on the ice, drawing circles around his mother as she struggled to find her balance. Ivan followed Karina carefully, giving her a hand to stay upright for at least one lap round the rink. After which she found her place leaning against the rink and watching Ivan's futile goal of teaching Yuri hockey. The boy just kept goofing off and skating up to Karina to show how fast he could spin. 

Ivan gave up on the hockey part and instead focused on teaching him how to move backwards, Yuri was far more interested. The day ended on a good note, Yuri asleep in his Grandpa's arms, worn out the day's activities. 

"Yuri doesn't really take after you," said Ivan as he held the car door open. 

Karina thought about it, Yuri had always resembled her one night stand, and while his blonde hair might darken as he got older, the sharp edges of cheekbones were already prominent. He was a skinny child that had none of her family's weight – in her case curves. Barring those green eyes, it wasn't hard to imagine him as the perfect replica of his father as he got older. 

"He gets all his looks from his donor," she joked. "The winning personality is all mine." Ivan chuckled with her. 

"Not really," interrupted her father. "You were such a sweet baby, Yuri is very fussy. As for how he'll be in the future, we'll just have to wait and see." 

"Meh, it doesn't really matter who he takes after, he's a great kid. I'm sure whatever he decides on he'll go far," said Ivan, just as he loaded the last bits of toot into the boot. Karina hugged him good bye and gave a mechanical kiss as she thought on what had been said. 

Yuri didn't take after anyone on her side, and she knew next to nothing about Mr One-night-stand. No medical history, no connection to any family other than her and her father. 

"I don't know anything about Yuri's father." 

"I know, you said it was a one time thing," Nikolai replied. 

"I don't know anything, what if he has some rare genetic disorder. Or, or what if there's a history of terrible mental illness, and for all we know Yuri could be allergic." Karina might have panicked... just a bit. 

"Karinka, calm yourself. We've managed this long," her father reassured her. 

It had been her and her father for so long, she forgot there was a whole side to Yuri that she didn't know. Did married woman have this problem? Did they one day realize, they shared half of their child with someone? For Karina, Yuri was hers, her lovely little party crasher. It was weird to think to an unknown man, Yuri was his as well. 

Winter melted to Spring. Yuri celebrated his 5th birthday, he was disappointed again that there was no cat. With the pond liquid again, Yuri's only skating opportunities were reduced to Ivan's infrequent visits to the local rink. 

"He always wants to do hockey," complained the young boy one afternoon. 

"You don't like hockey?" Asked her father. 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"It's stupid, they're all chasing one ball, they could just get their own." 

"What do you want to do on the ice?" 

"Dance! Like Victor." 

Yuri was given ballet lesson's for his birthday. 

Another change came in the form of a career opportunity for Karina. A friend had recommended her for a front desk job in one of Moscow's prominent hotels. It was currently in trail period, but she was hopeful, the market job was never a plan for Karina. She wanted to succeed, even though she'd put her dreams on hold for Yuri, they were still there. 

The work was good, and the pay better. Karina had a polite and agreeable veneer that did well in most customer service positions. She learned quick and was confirmed for the open position in just a couple of weeks. 

On top of that raise, the hotel preferred live music in the dining room. An audition later and she had a place on their performance roster. It wasn't her usual genre but, Karina kind of liked it. Slow and sensual, a far cry from her pop days. She used Ivan's last name to further separate herself from Karina Plisetskaya, pop princess. 

Karina Kovalyova was a hit and rising star on live performance circuit. 

Yuri was too worn out to be grumpy, her father's back had been pain free for the last couple of weeks, and Ivan was testing the waters with talks about future plans and houses. Karina's life was back on track and maybe it would never be as glamourous as it would have been without Yuri, but she'd deal, like she had with everything else. Karina could love what she had, she knew it. 

The day started in a bang, an important guest was arriving. The staff moved at a quick pace like little worker bees. Karina was delegated to paperwork in the back room, as the hotel manager was personally seeing to the guest and his entourage's needs, and another more experienced employee had been appointed to the front desk. 

It didn't bother Karina, she and women on break had a fun twenty minutes comparing photos of their kids. Irina had the cutest little girl called Nadia, and they collectively cooed over little Yuri in his ballet shoes. 

"Oh look at that scowl, he looks so cute." 

"I know, don't let the grump fool you, he loves his dance," said Karina. 

"He'll be a heart breaker, look at that face. So handsome." 

"Should we be setting him up with little Nadia," joked one maids. 

"Not if you want her to start crying. Yuri's a terror with his words," said Karina. "His Grandpa likes to say he's abrasive, I think he's just rude." 

"Does he get it from his father? My Misha likes to act all tough, but he's a sweetheart – just like his Papa," Alisa reassured her. 

"Don't let it bother you, he'll soften as he gets older. My brother the same, tantrums all through childhood then suddenly – poof – gentleman," said Polina. 

The clock chimed, signaling the end of break. The women dispersed each heading back to work. Karina, enjoying her easy day, took a detour to talk to Sasha – one of Ivan's friends girlfriend – in the kitchens. Ivan's birthday was coming up. 

"Hey Karina, how's the job?" She asked. 

"It's good, although I'm sidelined today. We've got a very important guest in the presidential suite." 

"Mm, we heard. Room service is just about to head up," said Sasha. "Speaking of which, checkout the new guy. If I was single." Sasha nodded her head towards a lean man in the white hotel uniform. Karina honestly hadn't noticed him, the uniform hat hid – what she assumed to be – blond hair and cast just the right amount of shadow over his eyes. 

"New?" Karina asked. 

"This week sometime, I can't remember when. Cute right," said Sasha. 

Karina couldn't put cute and men in the same sentence. It came form having a son, she was sure. Men where handsome, ugly, baby-faced, or some times just averagely good looking – like her Ivan – but they weren't cute. Boys were cute, men were not. The new worker was not a boy. 

Karina could make out a well proportioned face with sharp cheekbones. His body was lean, and while Ivan and his friends would have called the man out as skinny, Karina was somehow sure underneath that uniform was a fierce amount of muscle. 

"Hey!" Sasha startled her, bringing Karina back to reality. "First, compare, Ivan – hotel boy. Which is better?" 

"Ivan." 

"Good answer, secondly, can you do me a favor?" Sasha asked. Karina nodded. "Awesome, I wanna take my break and Polina needs me to run some cleaning supplies up to her." 

"I'll do it for you." 

"God your amazing. I take it back, go for gold with new guy, Ivan doesn't deserve you." 

"I need your card for the staff elevator," replied Karina. 

Sasha dug around in her pockets for the card. 

"There you go." 

"See you later." 

Karina found the bottles quickly and a headed out towards the elevator, where new guy seemed to be having trouble with both the elevator and the room service cart. 

"Here, let me," she interrupted his poor struggle and used Sasha's card to open the doors. "Don't worry about the card, their really slow about activating them. Sasha's took weeks to work, she just borrowed someone else's." 

"Thanks," he spoke clearly, with no real accent from anywhere. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Presidential suite," he answered. 

"No problem, that's top floor," she said, silence was always just a little awkward "I'm just heading to the sixth floor." He simply nodded. 

"I haven't seen you in the kitchen before," he said. It wasn't really a question more of an observation. 

"No, I work at the front desk, I'm just backstage today due to important guests." The sixth floor was fast approaching, Karina was so thankful. As the elevator slowed for the sixth floor, Karina realized something very important. 

"Your key doesn't work." 

The man next to her didn't necessarily freeze, but he defiantly tensed. 

"You can't wheel the cart down the stairs. Here, take Sasha's card, I can take the stairs from six. Just make sure to put the card back in her cubby. We get charged if we lose anything." The doors dinged and opened. 

"Thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful." The nameless man offered her a small smile as the doors closed, through the closing gap she saw him turn to check the cart. There, on his neck was a long and thin scar. 

Karina was still dazed when she found Polina, handing over both bottles to the fussing woman. The smile, exactly like Yuri's when he was up to something, like that time he and her father put sardines in a pirozhki and tricked her into eating it. 

For some reason the scar was easier to reason away, it could have been the trick of the light, or the edge of his collar. That smile though, that 'I'm up to something' smile, she couldn't get it out of her mind. It was so Yuri, so mischievous and tiny only a mother could spot it on her son. 

Did she talk to him? Did she wait for him in the kitchen and confront him, demand his name and that he bear his neck for her to see. Would it change anything, or would it simply open a can of worms she just shouldn't. 

"Polina, can I ask you a hypothetical question?" 

"Sure." 

"If you possibly ran into an Ex that you hadn't seen in years, but you don't know for sure that it's him, would you talk to him?" 

"Does he owe me money?" 

Karina thought for a second, hard years as a grocery clerk, Yuri's skates, Yuri's ballet, her father hospital bills, and finally her failed career. 

"Kind of." 

"Is it going to lead to problems with Ivan?" Polina raised an eyebrow at her. 

"This is a purely hypothetical situation." 

"Is it?" 

Karina, actually hadn't thought about that. Mr Father-of-my-child, definitely wasn't short on attractiveness, or – if her memory served her – lacking in anyway between the sheets. However, that really wasn't enough to test her love for Ivan. Ivan put in the work. 

"I might possibly have run into the father of my child." 

Polina smiled, before replying. 

"That's much easier to deal with. The question is, do you want him in you and your son's life?" 

Karina thought back to the man who inspired fear and fascination. She'd likened him to a snake. He had this aloofness, it was alluring to a young naïve woman but, to her older self it spoke of unavailable man looking only for something physical, good partners were invested. He was the type of man women made excuses for. 

"No." 

It seemed good to finally have that answer. The question subconsciously eating at her without Karina's knowing. The man was gone, he was never there, he would never be apart of her or Yuri's life, and they were better for it. 

The day passed by at unseen speed. Sasha texted her later, telling her the card was in her cubby and all was well, although she couldn't find cute guy. Karina had informed her she was happy with Ivan. After 3 o'clock she was back at the front desk, answering calls and assisting the guests. At 9 o'clock she was let off work and started preparations on her act. 

Gone was the dumpy hotel uniform, in its place a long formal dress that clung to her in all the right places. Her mothers pearls – passed from mother to daughter for many a generation – completed the image, she was a dream of sophistication and grace. A far cry from her pop princess days. 

She spent an hour on stage, providing an enchanting atmosphere for the dining guests. It was good to feel the applause after each song, polite and loving. Karina could imagine, if she worked hard, being invited to gala's and parties, her name whispered around in reverence as they lauded her appearance at each event. She could be the guarded secret of high society. 

Karina managed to stop her day dreaming form there, it had been a long night, all she wanted to do was go home put her feet up and maybe cuddle Yuri. He was very cuddlable, even when asleep, it was probably the easiest time to cuddle her little monster. 

She was so exhausted she opened her drivers side door and plopped her absolutely exhausted behind into the seat. It took a couple tries for the engine to turn over and finally start. Un-lady like behavior might have been exhibited. A few minutes later she was on her way home. 

She doesn't even register the metallic click from the back seat of the car, and she may not been paying attention the noise that sounded like a throat clearing. So it really came as a shock to Karina when a calm and accent less voice told her to. 

"Pull over." 

Exhausted Karina did the only reasonable thing, she hit the brakes and thanked every god she knew that she drove very slow when tired. 

The man in the back – who wasn't wearing a seatbelt – smacked his head against the back of her seat, and in her sleep deprived state, this conversation started. 

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry, are you okay?" Karina asked, panicking just a little at the thought of hurting someone. 

"I'm fine, it was an accident." 

"I'm so sorry, it's just you startled me. Are you bleeding? I think I have some tissues." 

"I'm fine." 

"This is why we have seatbelts." 

He gave her this, 'are you serious' look, and it still took Karina just a bit to understand what was going on. In his hand he held a very serious looking gun, like the police used on TV, maybe that was why none of this felt real, and that the next question she asked was. 

"Why did I need to pull over?" And not, "why are you in my car?" Or, "who are you?" Hell, not even, "Why do you have a gun?" 

"Because it's dangerous to threaten you while your driving." 

"I'm sorry, threaten me?" 

"Yes, who are you?" 

"Karina Plisetskaya, I work the desk." He gave her the 'are you serious' face again. Karina was honestly done with today as a whole, and proceeded to unload. "Look, I don't know what's happening! All I can figure out is that you," she pointed at him, stabbing his chest with her finger, "are in my car and that is preventing me from going home and sleeping." 

He didn't have the decency to even look ashamed. 

"Do you work for SVR?" Mr Absolute-asshole asked. 

"What? No!" Karina exclaimed. "My god! Maybe, once, and only once! I slept with you, many years ago." 

That seemed to gain a reaction, she could see the gears turning behind those icy blue eyes. The tight grip on his gun, relaxed ever so slightly, but she really didn't notice that. Karina was just getting started, she had five years of frustration that all linked back to one Russian man. 

"In one – one – night, not only did you kill my dreams of stardom but, you saddled me with a little ball of rage and, much as I love him, you and your fucking rod, or whatever dumb nickname you have for it – you ruined my life! I got to spend the next years – years – supporting my father and your son." Karina laughed, hysterical. "Oh and here's the fucking kicker: just when I'm finally getting my life back on track – a boyfriend, another shot at my career, a rude but improving five year old – you show up in my fucking car with a fucking gun! I just want to go home and put my little boy to bed, you fucker. I work fourteen hours to look after him! Get the hell out of my car, and get the hell out of my life!" 

The door lock popping up was probably the loudest thing he had ever heard.


	2. Yassen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence and explicit description of it. Please enjoy.

It was a little known fact that Yassen Gregorovich hated Moscow. He didn't particularly like his home country in general but, Moscow held the coveted position of Yassen's most hated city. He, in his years as an international contract killer, had only retuned twice to the city. Once to resolve his own personal issues, then to silence an informant. 

His most recent trip to the city had been caused by Yassen's new freelance status. After five years under exclusive contract to the terrorist organization, Scorpia, Yassen was free. He was also out of work. It was a favored tactic of Scorpia, release their agents form the contract, then force them back into the organizations pocket when the naïve couldn't survive without their babysitter. 

Yassen had exhausted every means he had before finally turning to the Russian mafia. He'd spent enough time as a slave, he could deal with his country if it meant he had a semblance of choice. As expected they reluctant and wary at first of the young man. It took multiple successes to secure his place in the Bratva. 

Even then he was always aware of his precarious position. Yassen was an outsider, he would never give full loyalty to the Pakhan, it made him dangerous and only his particular skill set was saving him. Not that Yassen cared, he'd already established himself as a big fish on an international scale. Now, it was about staying on his feet till Scorpia came to him asking for help. 

Unfortunately part of that waiting game was following orders, and those order led him to a particularly fancy hotel in Moscow. Fedya Bodrov's fate had been decided the moment his name had been hand in an unmarked envelope not a week ago. With a mere week to complete his objective he booked the earliest flight out of St Petersburg. A short flight – in comparison to international one Yassen was used to – later, the young killer found himself in Moscow for third time. 

He still hated it. 

He made quick work of finding a room to his satisfaction, not to public – not to decrepit, and about four block from the targets hotel. Next was a visit to the Architecture and Regulations office for the complete plans of both the hotel and surrounding building. It took a simple mention of a fake design course, and he was excused from questions. It was crucial to know your terrain, no matter where you where. 

His favored method of choice was quickly ruled out, unless he wanted to chance it and fire on an open fire on a populated street, causing a panic and risking his escape. That meant he'd be working an inside job. 

One Mr Zetov, after just landing his first job in the hospitality industry, found himself without an identity, or a pair of working lungs. Not that the hotel complained when a young man arrived promptly for his first day of work. It took Yassen two days to locate his Targets room and itinerary, then reassign himself to wait staff. 

The Target arrived exactly according to schedule – never follow a schedule – meaning that exactly at one o'clock, a private lunch would be delivered to the presidential suite by 'Mr Zetov'. Then he would have – from his estimates of cleaning and the managers own schedule – around thirty minutes to get back down stairs and out of the building before the bodies was discovered. The elevator was currently too unreliable as it had not accepted the hotel issued card. 

Underneath the hotel uniform he'd stowed away, his Beretta 92, an extra magazine, and one suppressor. All for one Target and whatever entourage he's brought. Though from the schedule and booking in seems he'd only brought along two men, one a trained bodyguard and the other a long time friend. Neither would provide a problem for Yassen. 

When the clock showed quarter to one, he made his move. Approaching the current waiter, loading the cart with the Target's lunch. 

"Need a hand?" Yassen asked. 

"Just the last tray on the bench there," replied the waiter. Yassen spotted it and passed it to the young man. Casually striking conversation as he did so. 

"Hey, have you been on break yet?" 

"No, I've just got this to do then it's lunch for me." 

"I've just finished my break, I can take it." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah, where is it going?" 

"Presidential suite, top floor, got it?" 

"No problem." 

With that the waiter left the cart in Yassen's care. A short walk to service elevator, he swiped his - valid – access card and waited for it open, and waited, and waited. He contiued his attempt, it was moment like these that got assassins killed. 

"You would think the valid one would work." He muttered as Yassen attempted one more time. 

"Here, let me," said a cheerful voice. Her slender hand quickly swiping a card and finally activating the elevator. "Don't worry about the card, they're really slow about activating them. Sasha's took weeks to work, she just borrowed someone else's," the woman babbled, holding the doors open for him and the cart. 

"Thanks," he replied, as was polite. 

"Where are you going?" 

"Presidential suite," he answered, short and sweet, lying would just cause confusion and alarm if she followed it up, which then led to discovery. 

"No problem, that's top floor," she said. "I'm just heading to the sixth floor." He simply nodded. 

From the corner of his eye he surveyed the woman, she was good looking, beautiful with strong features. Honey blonde hair coiled into tight bun, while a hotel uniform disguise an hour-glass figure. All in all, she had a glamourous quality to her that Yassen wouldn't deny he found attractive. 

If only he could get to the understand the familiarity he felt, like he'd met the woman before, and just couldn't recall where. The last time in Moscow he had been on an errand run, he'd been there for two nights at most. There might have been a night involving some form of partner, whether that partner was male for female he neither knew nor cared, Scorpia trained that out of its agents. 

"I haven't seen you in the kitchen before," he said, giving her an opening to talk and hopefully reveal some clue as to her familiarity. 

"No, I work at the front desk, I'm just backstage today due to important guests." 

She kept glancing at the floor number like she was counting the seconds till she could escape. Yassen made adjustments to how much time he had. He wanted to avoid the public elevator and the camera's in the main lobby, that left him the service elevator and the stairwell. The elevator was quicker, but it was obvious his card wasn't going to work. 

"Your key doesn't work," she said, like it was some great realization. Instinctual reactions had been trained out of him, but no amount of training could stop that millisecond of reaction. Her words combined with the nervous glancing at numbers set him on edge, like he'd been made. Not that is mattered, it was better to succeed and be caught then fail and die. 

"You can't wheel the cart down the stairs," she continued. "Here, take Sasha's card, I can take the stairs from six. Just make sure to put the card back in her cubby. We get charged if we lose anything." 

Was she helping him? Did she know? Was this a trap? Yassen would have to wait and see. 

"Thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful." As the doors closed he offered the woman a small smile and stole another appreciative glance at her. 

The elevator began to rise again, between the seventh and eighth floor he pushed the emergency stop button. The service elevator, unlike the guest ones in the lobby, had no camera's allowing Yassen to assemble his pistol and suppressor. Then using a smuggled roll of duct tape he stuck it to the underside of the cart. 

The elevator opened on the twelfth floor, occupied by an unassuming waiter. The Targets body patted the young man down checking for any hidden weapons, he found none. Next the food was checked each plate opened, inspected and then tasted, exactly and Yassen predicted. The bodyguard waved him through. 

There were two other men in the suite, the Target and his friend, they were discussing by the dining table. Russian switched to German as he entered, not that it mattered Yassen was flaunt in five separate languages, including German, not that he revealed as such. The two were talking about some kind of shipment arriving in Sochi, it sounded valuable. If the Pahkan was nice, Yassen might even tell him. 

Just as the bodyguard retuned to the dining room Yassen made his move. With practiced skill only Yassen could hone, his Beretta was drawn. The body guard went down first – eliminating the biggest threat – one clean shot between the eyes, although the rest of his brains decorated the far wall. Next, the collateral, aim, execute. The force of the bullet knocking the deadman of his feet, sending him stumbling against the wall. 

The Target gawked like a gutted fish, only managing some form of action as the barrel of the pistol was aimed at him. His mouth moved but no words escaped, bang, he dropped like a lead weight and spasmed as the last vestiges of life deserted him. 

He searches the bodies for a phone, upon finding one he takes three pictures, one of each body, and then sends them to a burner phone as proof of his success. 

He now had to leave the building undetected. The hotel uniform was quickly shed, it was now coved in blood spatter, underneath he wore a plain black shirt. His gun was tucked away seamlessly in the folds and curves of his clothing. 

He decides to trust the woman and the elevator – it’s the fastest way out of the building – but his suspicions have not been silenced. It takes ninety six seconds for the elevator to reach the ground floor, another two minutes to find a cubby labeled Sasha and collect his jacket. 

The bodies are discover twenty minutes later, Yassen is already back at his hotel, attempting to place the beautiful woman from the elevator. He has no memory of her, only possible theories, a plant meant to kill him. Maybe a spy trying to find her way into Scorpia, like John had. He didn't know why they were bother with him, he'd never fallen for any kind of honeypot. 

He kept coming back to her, and the terrible thought that he should know the woman. Was she the last remnants of the Sharkovsky family. He, unfortunately, hadn't caught her name, thus leaving him scrabbling for answers and considering very stupid ideas. However, after much deliberation, he decided on an extremely stupid plan. 

Re-dressing completely, adding a cap and sunglasses, he returned to the hotel. The staff had a separate car park, with tight corners that made them good places to hide, he tucked himself in the one that gave the best view of the parking space. Then he waited. 

She emerged around nine at night, heading towards her car - an old red Skoda – and collected a bag before heading back in to the building. Yassen took his chance, slipping through the rows of parked cars he found hers and expertly picked the lock. Now open, he commenced a thorough search of the car, only finding, some lipstick, tissues, a couple of action figures and a couple photos of a cute kid skating about on a iced pond. 

Not very incriminating but, it didn't ease the – still – growing suspicion of the woman. He knew this woman, somehow, and it seemed he was only going to get answers one way. Decided, he locked the car again from the inside, prepared his weapon and tucked himself away in the back seat of the tiny car. 

It took about another hour for the woman to reappear in the lot, dressed in a tight black dress with a sweetheart neckline - accentuating an ample chest and full hips – striding confidently in stilettos. Yassen spied her across the parking lot, as she approached he calmly ducked down, and waited for her to start the car – it needed a tune up – and drive off. 

It was as they passed through the backroads of Moscow, that he emerged from his hiding place, very slowly. At the same time checking the safety was on, because it was dumb to threaten some one in a moving vehicle with a weapon running hot. It clinked ever so slightly as he slid into the backseat, finally up right. He cleared his throat in attempt to catch her attention. 

She ignored him. 

"Pull over," he said, softly, trying to keep her calm. 

She slammed the brakes, the car came to an abrupt stop. Yassen smacked the side of his face on the front seat, then back his head on the edge of the car roof. He swore quietly under his breath, while cradling his bruising skull. 

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry, are you okay?" She asked. Her eyes staring at him with genuine worry. It must have been the head injury that caused his reply. 

"I'm fine, it was an accident." 

"I'm sorry, it's just you startled me." Damn right she should be startled, a strange man was in her car, with a gun. The correct action was to be startled. "Are you bleeding? I think I have some tissues." 

"I'm fine," he reassured. 

"This is why have seat-belts." 

This woman was drunk. Or she was on some kind of drug. 

"Why did I need to pull over?" 

That was not the question she should have been asking, now Yassen was feeling confused. So confused, he replied with the truth. 

"Because it's dangerous to threaten you while your driving." Yassen could have shot himself for that sentence alone, never mind the whole situation. Honestly, he meant it was dangerous for him. 

"I'm sorry, threaten me?" 

"Yes," he confirmed, for her benefit. "Who are you?" 

"Karina Plisetskaya, I work the desk." A little clearer this time, like she was slowly coming to. "Look, I don't know what's happening!" Then she exploded. "All I can figure out is that you," she pointed at him, and stabbed at his chest with her finger, "are in my car and that is preventing me from going home and sleeping." 

"Do you work for the SVR?" Yassen asked, just to be sure, because assumptions made an ass out of everyone. It seemed though that these where the words to wake her form her stupor, not a stranger in her car, or the weapon he was still holding, and if he though her little outburst from earlier was it. He was wrong. 

"What? No!" She exclaimed. "My god! Maybe, once, and only once! I slept with you, many years ago." 

Of course that's when it clicked. Yassen remembered her, a young woman who approached him at a hotel bar, and then the other intricacies of that night. 

"I had sex with you?" He was still working it out in his head. She seemed to take offense. 

"In one – one – night, not only did you kill my dreams of stardom but, you saddled me with a little ball of rage and, much as I love him, you and your fucking rod, or whatever dumb nickname you have for it – you ruined my life! I got to spend the next years – years – supporting my father and your son." 

She laughed, slightly hysterical. "Oh and here's the fucking kicker: just when I'm finally getting my life back on track – a boyfriend, another shot at my career, a rude but improving five year old – you show up in my fucking car with a fucking gun! I just want to go home and put my little boy to bed, you fucker. I work fourteen hours to look after him! Get the hell out of my car, and get the hell out of my life!" 

The door lock popping up was probably the loudest thing he had ever heard, and as he tried to process both the whole sentence and the word 'son', he found himself on city sidewalk. The old Skoda speeding of into the distance. 

An hour later and he found himself lying on the pavement, still processing the entire fuck up that was his life, and sorting through everything she – Karina had said. He had a son, possibly, although the five years matched up with his last visit to Europe, and to answer his own question, yes he did have sex with her. 

He was left with an unpleasant dilemma. His options where as followed: deny any connection and continue his life until he was either assassinated him self or failed in the field, make contact with possible child and forever put them and himself at due to their value as leverage, or attempt to go cold turkey entirely with the international circus find a good position in the local mafia. None where favorable options. 

"The bus doesn't stop here young man," came a chiding voice, like they were telling a small child off. It belonged to a withered old woman, carrying a heavy load of shopping. 

"I'm not waiting for a bus." He replied 

"Then what are you doing?" 

"Suffering from an existential crisis." 

"What about?" 

"I just found out I possibly have a son." 

"Well the footpath isn't a good place to think about that sort of thing." 

"Probably not." He made no attempt to get up. 

"Are you catching the bus or not." 

That was a good question, and another good one, where was he. Yassen knew cities and the layout in the ones he most frequented, but Moscow was always a gnat that he avoided whenever possible. Of course, that gnat came back to bite him in the ass. 

"I need to get back to central Moscow." 

Four bags laden with grocery's dropped precariously close to his head, the old woman already moving at quick pace towards a well lit stop. 

"Come on then, I'll make tea when we get home." 

And that was how Yassen Gregorovich, infamous assassin, current hitman for the St Petersburg Bratva, and not to forget graduate of Malagosto, found him self having tea with a nameless old lady in her rundown apartment. It wasn't even good tea. 

"Aren't you weary of what a strange man that you found lying on the streets of Moscow might do, old woman all alone at home." 

"If he's going to anything 'he' better be quick about it." 

In the short ride from the bus stop to her small apartment, Yassen had learned that, she lived alone, her son was worthless, and the old woman was as devious as they came. Not only making him carry her groceries, but also picking up the bus fare. He was kind of impressed. 

"So, you have a son. Are you going to man up and take care of him?" She asked, eyes cold as judged him from behind her cup. 

"It's not a question of whether or not I want to be involved. It's a question of how much danger I would put him - and his mother - in." 

"Then take precautions. Every boy needs a father." 

"It's not that simple." 

"Sure it is, you're just whining, cause it might be hard. Well guess what, good things are always hard! Take my Sergei, such a sweet baby, such an easy child, now he's a good for nothing brownnoser, married to loose woman." She seemed to continue her little raving under her breath. 

"Are you finished?" 

"Have you no sympathy for a betrayed woman, boy," she snapped. 

"I'm sure you were no innocent in that situation." 

"Spoilt little brat. Tarnished every memory of his father, down to his dying wish. 'take care your mama,' That’s what he said, such a good husband, such a strong man. He piloted for the Airforce you know." The old woman smile so softly at the thought of her late husband. "Oh, the shame he would feel if he saw his state of his son." 

"What did he pilot?" 

"Helicopters, called them alligators or something similar." 

"Crocodiles, They're called crocodiles." 

"Ah, you're a military man?" 

"No. I liked helicopters as a boy." 

"A fine hobby." She smiled at him again, as if she'd had a great realization. "I know why you are here." 

"You tricked me into carrying your bags." 

"No, not that. Do you have a Grandmother, or even your own mother?" 

"They were either, gunned down in the streets, burnt alive, or died a painful death due to a deadly virus. Maybe all three," Yassen bluntly replied. He tried to avoid all forms of his past, it was better buried. Especially now there was a descendant of the Estrov massacre. 

His words did nothing to faze the woman. 

"You have been without the guidance of a strong woman, we oldies have a natural talent for dealing with the bullshit of young men." 

"Like you helped your son?" He replied. Yassen could deal with his current crisis in the dubious safety of his hotel room, he'd had enough of this madness. 

"Like all the youth of today, running from your elders and your responsibilities. Look at you can't even stomach keeping an old woman company." 

"It's the tea I can't stand," he said, setting the a practically untouched mug down before getting up to leave. 

"Well excuse me for helping a useless wastrel, next time I see a young man lying on the pavement I'll walk right on by." 

"It do him more good than your interference." 

"I'm trying to help you," she said. 

"I don't want help." 

He slammed the door on his way out. 

Yassen managed to locate a familiar street and work his way back from there. It was well past midnight when he reached his room. Before relaxing, Yassen ran through all his safety precautions. A hair across the entrance way, the flow of traffic below. All confirmed that there was - likely - nothing amiss, and that no one had entered his room. 

His room now secure, the assassin retrieved his computer and connected to the internet. Then he googled the name she'd given him, Karina Plisetskaya. The results were instantaneous and varied, the first referencing to a inactive Russian pop idol. He started there. 

It was her, dressed in black leotard and heavy leather jacket, her blonde hair lose as she sang into the microphone. She was younger, but not obviously, and her curves and bust where less pronounced. Actually, in another photo he found her with out the jacket, her arms an legs were spindly, each joint more visible than it should have been. However, she was undeniably the woman from the car. 

He remembered her from the hotel, slightly tipsy and very interested. Yassen had never been found of casual sex, but he was in Moscow – he hated Moscow – he had completed his objective and was set to fly out early the next morning, and she approached him with the most ridiculous pick up line. 

It ended in an enjoyable night with a woman he was likely never to see again, and who was far more interested in his abdominal muscles than the fact he had on him a least one hand gun and three knives on his person. 

At the bottom of the page, je found what he was looking for, the end of her career. Not a month later she was dropped by her manager for... attitude problems, behavioral issues, and family matters. There was one personal quote from her stating that she would be taking hiatus, to raise her child - born on March 1st. 

Fuck, the dates matched up. 

_---_ 

The Plisetsky house was the furthest he'd been from Moscow, at least since he'd killed the Sharkovsky's, it was an old wooden cottage, complete with shutters and peeling paint. Very similar to the one he'd lived in as a boy. On one side a yellow car was parked innocently drive way, on the other stood a proud oak, accompanied by a old swing drifting quietly in the afternoon wind. 

He almost turned around, almost made the best decision – ignore the possibility, protect the kid – but Yassen had never been good at selflessness. He couldn't stop himself once he made the first steps towards the home. The path old and broken, steps worn and creaky, and the door, the door shook on its very hinges as he knocked. 

Loud footsteps echoed from inside the house, little mutterings escaped out the open window. The front door swung open to reveal a grizzled Russian man. He was aging, his beard and hair two toned with blond and a darker black, dressed in pressed pants and a heavy jumper. Even with barely an inch or two on Yassen, he still managed to look down on him. 

"What do you want?" He asked. This was the last chance he had to back out, turn away now and he could ignore the hated city forever. 

"I'm looking for Karina Plisetskaya."


End file.
